(Baker)

In which he was able to stop  (Gill Lambert)

When all this is over, said the baker,

I will write a note in flour dust,

poke my name and back in 5 minutes.

I will pull up the blinds to the afternoon;

let the sun melt macaroons and French fancies.

..

I will put down a carpet, I’m tired 

of hardness, I want something with more – give.

I’ll run a bath and sink to the chin,

lie for hours, let the cold out, more hot in.

I’ll go to bed late, wake at dinner.

…

When all this is over I’ll buy cheap white

from the corner shop, take out two slices,

slather on butter, fill them with crisps.

I’ll press them, thin as paper between my palms,

just so I know what I might have missed.

..

Balloonist (Su Ryder)

When this is all over, said the balloonist,

I will bring my basket back over Burnsall Bridge,

causing a raucous scatter of rooks and mallards,

ducking through ancient trees and modern hazards.

…

Runners will chase my shadow, my full-bellied ghost,

as it wheezes and roars overhead, buffering through

fleeced flocks of scattering clouds in pastures of blue,

their shadows racing the sunlight roaming the fell.

..

Then rusty weekend campers from Appletreewick,

and hikers, booted in blisters, too long off their feet,

will cluster outside the Red Lion, that first siren thrill

of real ale loosening anecdotes too long left dry.

..

And I’ll bump my basket down through bracken and gorse,

the tang of horse and Friesian, and Swaledale sheep,

my envelope like a stray rainbow settling to earth,

buoyed by belief and helium-high on hope.

…

The next poem broke all the rules, or simply ignored them. But it made me laugh, which more than you can say for the daily news..

………

Bingo Caller Blues (Val Bowen)

Rise and shine, a cup of tea

For you and me at Torquay in Heaven

Berlington Bertie and Dirty Gertie

Nearing the top of the shop

We’re staying in……….. distancing 

on Doctor’s Orders , staying alive, 

out of Boris’s Den, almost retired 

should be feeling Zen.

..

But me? I’m only halfway there

I got the bingo caller blues

Can’t call it out.  

My numbers not up 

and there’s no full house.

Can’t exercise my right

to rhyme every night

I got the bingo caller A-Z

1 to 90 blues

…

My Queen Bee, she loves to stay indoors

counts 39 more steps In her droopy drawers.

Then makes another Christmas cake

She’s tickety boo, not  in a state

baking brownies in the oven by the triple dozen

..

But me ? I’m only halfway there

I got the bingo caller blues

Can’t call it out

My numbers not up 

and there’s no full house

Can’t exercise my right

To rhyme every night

I got the bingo caller A-Z

1 to 90 blues

..

Every now and then we hear the garden gate

We’re not suffering a Ghandi’s Breakfast fate

A knock at the door bringing Chicken Vindaloo.,

It’s time for tea, anyway up, 

meal for Two, a favourite of mine, 

Grandma’s getting frisky, she’s so damn fine

..

But me? I’m only halfway there

 I got the bingo caller blues

Can’t call it out

My numbers not up 

and there’s no full house.

Can’t exercise my right

to rhyme every night

I got the bingo caller A-Z

1 to 90 blues

..

I’m feeling two and six

need to get up to tricks

take the key of the door

think young and keen.

There’s one score in me yet

I’m not a has been  

and it’s a bull’s eye!

I’ve still got it @Danny La Rue. 

I’ll use my legs eleven 

on the stairway to Heaven

To buckle my shoe

to get up and run

have some duck and dive fun

.. 

Jogging along, this Kelly’s Eye

Shouting out my numbers at passers by

On the sunset strip along the Brighton Line

It soothes my soul, don’t ask me why

Then unlucky for some just as I’m feeling fine

Here comes Herbie with his sirens on

I get arrested waiting in the queue 

For Fish Chips and peas

–           For shouting “ TWO FAT LADIES

–           HIT THE FLOOR,

–           DOWN ON YOU KNEES

…

That’s why, I got the bingo caller blues

Can’t call it out

My numbers not up 

and there’s no full house

Can’t exercise my right

To rhyme every night

I got the binger caller A-Z

1 to 90 blues.

..

… 

The Boulangére (Stella Wulf)

When the last embers die in the four, 

and the door scrapes its final crescent over the floor, 

I’ll watch the moon scythe through night’s prairie, 

track the Milky Way’s dusted trail to the doorstep of morning.

…..

I will spoon with my man, shape his flesh until he yields to my need. 

We will not rise until the sun sinks into earth’s golden crust.

Day and night will roll into one like a heavenly pain au raisin.

I will grow fat on the sweetness of it.

..

There are those who like to bake on a beach in the Med.

A run-of-the-mill type, I have little appetite for the exotic,

I’ll bare my head to a fall of snow, let it lie on my shoulders 

like grist, or the dander of my dead self.

..

I will dress in red, take up calligraphy, dip my pen in the blackest ink, 

swash through the bleached white space with a new vocabulary.

When I tire of that, I’ll sling a hammock between trees, 

sway like a pale baguette, naked and wanton.

..

On weekdays I’ll lie on my back in a cornfield, hear 

through its ears the scutter of mouse, feel in my bones the creation 

of mole’s orogenies, until the sky breaks its monotony 

with a brazen streak.

…….

I’ll go home to the warmth of a rekindled fire, 

the homespun house toasty as a new baked loaf, 

wine breathing soft in the carafe; proof of a man’s good love.

When the last embers die in the four, may it give us this day.

………

More tomorrow. With all sorts of possibilities…like carpenters, chauffeurs, chiropractors, cabinet makers, chemists, cleaners, cooks, chefs, chimneysweeps, clockmakers, chiromancers……….Who can say?